


Sins of the Unworthy: Agency

by silmaril94



Series: Sins of the Unworthy [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 11:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17466818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silmaril94/pseuds/silmaril94
Summary: This is intended to be part of a series of shorts exploring the manner in which a certain angsty Tevinter elf works out his various issues.





	Sins of the Unworthy: Agency

# Sins of the Unworthy: Agency

> _You do know the elf is covered in spikes, like an angsty porcupine? He might have some... issues._  
>  -Varric Tethras

A shift in the wind carried damp, chill air from the Waking Sea through a broken window. Fenris woke up shivering on top of sweat soaked sheets. He fumbled for the thin moth-eaten blanket, thrashed into a twisted pile at his feet, and pulled it over his head like a cloak. He curled to his side, clutched the blanket tightly to his chest, and tried to stop shaking. 

At the same time he was grateful for the cold to distract him. Instead of the usual nightmares and ruminations, a new and uncomfortable obsession had been keeping him awake most nights. Unlike the bad dreams, which dissolved as quickly as they came, this one kept him mired in a pit of frustration. 

Sleep finally reclaimed him for a while until he felt the heat and glare of mid-morning sun on his face. His head was pounding, but a fierce hunger and thirst compelled him out of bed. He gulped several sips from a water jug near the bed and dumped the rest over his head. Then he dressed himself from a rumpled pile of clothes on the floor, grabbed the routine protection of his chest plate and a long knife, and headed out into the bright streets. 

Fenris hated Hightown during the day, but if he held to the alleys and back streets he could avoid most scrutiny until he reached the slums. Darktown street food on the best of days was greasy rat meat and dumpster scraps from Lowtown, but nobody there would look at him twice. In Darktown, order and survival were maintained through one simple rule: everyone was no one. 

Everyone except the target of Tevinter slave hunters. Fenris had learned to expect them around every corner, even if it were not so. He couldn’t afford to think otherwise. A recaptured Tevinter fugitive rarely received the mercy of a quick death. His fate back in Tevinter would be worse than that of any hunter who failed to bring back prey for his master. 

But he could find moments of deep refuge if he learned where to look. They lingered in places like the precipitous ledges of Kirkwall’s outer walls, beyond the choking smog and stench of Darktown alleys, above the spew of sea foam from the bottom of the suicidal plunge into the Waking Sea. As if jagged rocks and churning currents weren’t deadly enough, sharp iron spikes protruded from the lower walls to guarantee the City of Chains would have her blood from any poor soul desperate or wretched enough to attempt escape. 

If Fenris perched against the cruel wall long enough, defying death, salt stinging his eyes, sun baking his skin, wind blowing his hair, he could sometimes find moments lost to time or thoughts. In those moments he was free. 

Inevitably the day turned to evening, harbinger of another fevered night. Fenris returned to the crumbling shelter of his borrowed Hightown mansion. Not looking forward to another sweat soaked attempt at slumber, he lit a candle and searched the cellar for something strong enough to knock him out through morning. He found a dusty bottle of well-aged brandy, possibly Antivan, and almost certainly too good to drink straight from the bottle. 

Fenris took the bottle to his room and wiped off a dirty glass he found near the fireplace. He poured the nectar full, brought the glass to his nose, and breathed deep the sensual fragrance. Then he took the amber liquid into his mouth, swirling it slowly with his tongue. The flavor was sweet, reminiscent of honey and dried tropical fruits, and complex with notes of rich, earthy spice. He let the brandy slide down his throat, pleasantly burning. 

He frowned. The pleasure of the spirit was sublime, but too brief to satisfy. He gulped what remained in the glass and poured another, disappointed with himself for the sin of drinking the good stuff so quickly. His cheeks felt flushed by the third glass, but he was still on edge. 

Fenris paced about the room, considering his options. He was too awake from his morning sleep-in to turn in for the night, and doubted his dreams would let him rest. He thought about arming his greatsword to prowl Lowtown and remind thugs how to fear the dark. Bloodlust didn’t fit his mood though. A different demon scratched at his thoughts, refusing to let him be. It was time to confront the source of this madness. 

He swiftly descended the stairs to the dilapidated great hall, bolted through the front door, and charged the empty Hightown streets. He didn’t take time to grab a cloak or his sword, which he regretted the instant he caught the attention of a gang of low-lifes. His angry stare was enough to give them pause, however, so he continued unmolested until he came to a familiar wrought iron gate. He deftly scaled the gate and landed in a courtyard dappled by light from the waning silver moon through a canopy of fig trees. 

He paced the courtyard near the door, considering whether it was better to knock at this hour or cast stones at the window. Before he could decide, he heard the soft whine of a hound scratching at the door. The hound fell silent, followed by the click and clank of turning bolts and a twisting key. Fenris’s heart pounded in his throat as the heavy wooden door creaked open. 

A figure appeared in the gap, silhouetted by the dim light of the main hall beyond the threshold. “Fenris?” He froze, paralyzed by the smooth music of her voice. She stepped away from the door, squinting into the darkness of the courtyard. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?” 

“Hawke.” He cleared the distance of the courtyard in several long steps. “I’ve been thinking of you.” His head was lowered and he looked up at her, almost glaring. “Command me to go, and I shall,” he challenged. _Command me to go, and end this madness._

“I will not,” she answered bluntly, as if to issue a counter-challenge. Instantly his mouth met hers as if pulled by a magnet and they kissed. He continued pressing forward, expecting her to push him away, but Hawke absorbed his hard advance with a dextrous backstep and threw her arm around his neck. Her lips parted invitingly and Fenris kissed her more deeply, until the shock of his own boldness set in and he abruptly pulled away. Hawke was a master of leverage and speed, and before Fenris could fully retreat she had him turned around with his back shoved hard against the wall. The stone was cold but her body felt warm pressing against him. He slid his hands down to the small of her back to draw her even closer and yielded to the passion of their kiss. 

Fenris could have spent hours or days lost in that kiss until Hawke’s velvet voice brought him back to reality. “You didn’t come here to spend all night in my courtyard.” 

“No, I suppose not,” he chuckled softly. 

“Come with me.” She guided him through the door and shut it behind them. All was quiet inside the Hawke mansion at this hour; even Haakon was settled at his place of recline near the main hearth. The great mabari Haakon placidly regarded them with his glittering intelligent eyes, and slowly lowered his head to rest on top of his massive paws as Hawke lead Fenris up the stairs to her chamber. 

Fenris had been to the Hawke mansion many times, often to practice deciphering words in the library, also periodically in response to dinner invitations at Leandra’s insistence. He found these semi-formal occasions rather awkward, especially if he was seated anywhere near that abomination Anders. It was strange to receive dinner service from Bodahn and Sandal after their experience together in the Deep Roads. And watching Isabela struggle against acting as if she were back at The Hanged Man could be either profoundly amusing or deeply embarrassing depending on how much whiskey she drank before dinner. But Leandra was a woman of such grace and charm that it was impossible to turn her down when she made a point of “getting to know more about Hawke’s friends.” Like mother like daughter, it was obvious where Hawke acquired her charms of persuasion. 

Combined with her other formidable talents, Fenris was beginning to understand how so many situations ended up turning out in Hawke’s favor. Almost as if she planned them that way. If she admitted to calculating his arrival at her courtyard tonight, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

Despite his many visits, Fenris had never seen Hawke’s room, and entering now felt like gaining access to a forbidden sanctuary. His head was swimming, a combination of brandy, the brisk rush through Hightown, and the unexpected marvel of finding himself in Hawke’s innermost private space. He needed a focal point to stave off dizziness, so he focused on Hawke with her soft lips and half-closed eyes, but when he tried to resume their last kiss she stopped him with the touch of her fingers to his lips. “Wait here,” she said, slowly stepping away. She tossed a new log to the fire on her way out of the room. 

Fenris paced nervously in front of the fireplace and then looked around to decide if he was inside a dream. The bedroom decor was elegant and luxurious, yet simple, very unlike the opulent Orlesian-inspired decor that was in high fashion with Kirkwall’s ranked nobility. The large canopy bed had thick wooden posts carved with motifs of the sea and its coast, featuring lush vegetation and foaming waters inhabited by animals both fantastical and real. The blankets and mattress appeared lofty and soft beneath the embroidered topsheet. Dark velvet curtains framed the tall south-facing windows that opened to a balcony overlooking the Waking Sea. Between the windows and the fireplace, a short couch with several small pillows was situated next to a table which held an oil lamp, a leather bound journal, and an inkwell with quills. Hawke’s dressing table near the wardrobe displayed a few simple personal items: a comb made of carved bone; a small oval mirror propped on a stand; a crystal flask of rose oil; a locket on a thin chain. 

He resumed his nervous pacing just as Hawke returned to place a jug of water on the nightstand. Fenris grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. Their passionate kissing quickly evolved into a mutual grasping at buckles and pulling on drawstrings until the last pieces of leather and linen dropped to the floor. 

Hawke stood naked before him, flesh and bone replacing the image constructed by his mind’s eye, and he nearly gasped. The flickering light from the fire and candle lamps reflected a warm glow off her pale skin, and cast shadows on the curves that softened her powerful lean body. He traced her curves with trembling hands until he held her face and looked into her gleaming blue eyes. “You’re beautiful, Hawke,” he whispered. “You can call me Marian,” she smiled, weaving her fingers through his fine platinum hair. “Marian,” he sighed, drawing her close. 

They plunged into the softness of fine linen and down bed coverings, and then into each other until there was no more space between them. Nothing from Fenris’s fevered dreams could predict the actual bliss of Hawke’s body moving beneath his, countering each motion with the perfect balance of yield and resistance, her every exhale a soft sigh of pleasure. Fenris closed his eyes and allowed himself to surrender completely to the grace and ease of their lovemaking. 

Until he felt the lyrium activate. The channels of lyrium carved into Fenris’s flesh surged with a tingling sensation and a faint blue glow. He clenched his jaw and concentrated on suppressing the energy, but the glow only brightened. The markings spared no reach of his body, from his chin and throat, down his sternum and spine, branching along his arms to each finger, wrapping around his legs from his outer thighs down to his feet. The same lyrium that energized him in battle and heightened his skill to defeat his foes, including the very hunters who sought to return him to Tevinter, could also ache with a deep discomfort echoed the excruciating pain of their creation. More importantly the lyrium markings were Fenris’s ever present reminder of his former life as Danarius’s humiliated slave. And he hated them. 

Sensing his pause, Hawke shifted her hips and flipped Fenris onto his back with an effortless twist. The soft flesh of her breasts brushed against his chest while she kissed his neck and ears. He sank into the luxury of her bed and felt helpless in a way that both frightened and excited him. Even more than he wished the markings to stop intruding upon their intimate moment, Fenris wanted to be deep inside of Hawke. He pressed his hands into her hips and she responded with a soft moan. Losing too much control of the lyrium meant he could partially phase into the Fade, but his hands still felt solid and grounded against her firm, warm skin. He continued to press. 

The lyrium energy started to ache in a way that was oddly more pleasurable than painful, an ache that intensified the more tightly he held her. Soon Hawke was in ecstasy, balancing herself with one hand on his shoulder, the other tightly clutching the pillow by his head. She cried out at the peak of her orgasm, and when her body trembled Fenris cried out too when he could no longer hold back the tide of his own pleasure. 

Panting and spent, Hawke collapsed into his arms. He enjoyed the weight of her on his chest and the deep rise and fall of her breath. When their racing hearts subsided, she slid to his side and nestled into the crook of his arm. “That was wonderful,” she whispered, pressing her face into his neck. 

“Thank you,” Fenris replied, immediately feeling awkward about his word choice. He stroked her smooth skin and marveled how this powerful force of a woman could transform into something so soft, so feminine, so easy to touch. And perhaps understanding. “You...weren’t bothered by the lyrium?” he asked hesitantly. 

“Not at all! It was _quite_ nice,” she smiled decadently. 

Fenris inwardly cringed. Could she feel the lyrium too? Was there no part of his life those vile markings couldn’t touch? 

At his silence, Hawke’s forehead wrinkled with concern and she propped up on her bent elbow. “Your markings...do they hurt?” She lightly touched the edge of his jaw to turn his head and meet his eyes. Instantly Fenris wanted to both hide and lay bare every corner of his soul to Hawke. He felt his chest tighten and his eyes sting, and quickly sought for an explanation that would fall in between. “It’s not that. I don’t know how to explain…” 

She lowered her eyes and settled back down to lay beside him. “You can tell me,” she said quietly, sliding her arm across his chest. “If you want to.” Fenris remained at a loss for words as his mind sorted through a frustrating mix of thoughts and feelings. 

“I know they cause you pain, at times,” she offered. He flushed - he tried so carefully to guard those vulnerable moments. His fiercest foes - the Qunari, his former master’s rival magisters, Tevinter hunters - would perceive such moments as a weakness to exploit. Fenris understood the power of an intimidating, unyielding appearance, even when he felt the lyrium burn and the strength of his body waver. Perhaps he had gotten careless over the years since Danarius’s last pursuit. Then again, Hawke was a woman who rarely failed to notice details. 

“Sometimes,” he confirmed. Like in the wake of a difficult battle when the waning charge of the lyrium started to fade. “The memory of their creation is worse.” He shuddered, trying not to recall too much of the hours spent so long ago, strapped naked to a cold ritual altar, while Danarius and his select apprentices slowly, brutally, and artistically carved the intricate lines of lyrium deep into his flesh. 

There were other times the lyrium felt good, in a way. Like when he first reached the Free Marches and stood over the bodies of a dozen slain hunters, handpicked from Danarius’s own personal guard, and the lyrium amplified the sweet rush of freedom and vengeance. Or when he dissolved his fist into the Fade then slipped it deep into Hadriana’s chest so he could crush the bitch’s beating heart. Or, in less violent moments, when the lyrium was activated by the divine and humbling pleasure of making love to a beautiful woman named Marian Hawke. 

“I just wish I could be free of this reminder of _Danarius_ , and everything he did to me,” Fenris said, with more bitterness than he intended. He closed his eyes tight - it was not a feeling he wanted to belong to this moment. Hawke remained still, breathing slowly and deliberately, her hand resting upon his chest. Fenris resigned himself to her judgement. 

“Danarius doesn’t own you anymore,” she said after a long silence. “He doesn’t own the lyrium in your skin either. That belongs to you now.” 

“You don’t understand,” he protested. “Danarius is a blood mage. He learned he could take power from me through the markings. Not just from the lyrium, but from my blood, without spilling a drop. Once he discovered this he did experiments, to see how far he could go...” 

Hawke swung her leg across his body and Fenris resigned to her embrace. He turned to face her, but kept his eyes lowered. “Danarius is not here,” she said, cutting to truth. “I’ve watched you command the power of that lyrium to slay abominations, demons, and darkspawn. That power belongs to you, not Danarius.” 

“He will come for me again,” Fenris warned. 

“And when that day comes, I will help you cut him down,” Hawke replied fiercely. 

How could she make such a promise when she knew how he betrayed the Fog Warriors? What if he succumbed to such weakness again, with her? Yet Fenris could not disbelieve her. When Hawke held a strong conviction she never wavered, and she was rarely ever proven wrong. 

“I know you hate these markings,” she continued softly. “But they are a part of you, and no one can change that. When you can accept this and take their power for yourself, Danarius will never be able to control you again.” 

“You don’t understand, you are not a mage…” 

“No,” she said firmly. “But my father was. And my sister is. I’ve been around magic my entire life. Giving your power away has very little to do with magic. I see it every day here in Kirkwall, where people have learned to accept the unacceptable.” 

She frowned. Living in Hightown had given Hawke first-hand experience with the complacency and decadence of the nobles who willfully turned a blind eye to the city’s injustice and suffering. “Our lives are not ruled by magic as much as by the choices we make. And their consequences,” she concluded. 

“I...think I understand what you mean,” Fenris replied. Although he wasn’t sure if he did, in fact, understand. In truth he felt too weary to think about it too much. Although Hawke’s words sounded true, Fenris could not conceive of anything in his life as being a choice. Could he really say he chose to leave Seheron when the Fog Warriors were slain, or was it more accurate to say that he fled, and the most logical path to follow at the time was south toward the Free Marches? Was his arrival in Kirkwall a choice, or the inevitable consequence of being relentlessly pursued by Tevinter slave hunters who chased him closer to the city where Danarius once kept a mansion? 

Even finding his way to Hawke’s arms was not much of a choice when he considered the fevered dreams and aching fantasies that came upon him as a result of her insinuations, the silky tone of her voice, the deliberate movement of her lips, the suggestive way she had shifted in her chair when she said that she could “help” him with his problems. 

As if to prove his point, Hawke swung her leg across his hip and positioned herself over him. “Let’s leave the talk for some other time,” she grinned, reaching for his groin. Fenris rolled his eyes and bit his lower lip at the feel of her touch. “I’d love to see what else you can do with those markings.” 

He felt the lyrium resurge, this time with angry desire instead of shame. With enough force to surprise them both, Fenris twisted and threw Hawke onto her back, pinning her down by her wrists. “We’ll find out,” he replied, and kissed her fiercely. 


End file.
